No Man's Land
by Fellowshipper
Summary: Christian not only advances in the KOTR tournament, but he wins it as well. So now that he's got his trophy, why is he more upset than ever?


Title: No Man's Land  
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Oh, but if only I did...  
Rating: PG for some language.  
  
Notes: *shaking fist* Darn you, Chris Jericho! Why did you have to beat up Edge and put all these E&C fics back in my head? Gah! See if I ever write YOU in another story! /rant. Anyway. This is going on the idea that Christian didn't lose Thursday to...*shudder* Val Venis. At least it wasn't Mark Henry, I guess...  
  
******  
  
I should probably be happy. No, scratch that. I know I should be happy. I *am* happy. I'm smiling. That means I'm happy, doesn't it? Or does it mean I'm about to stab you in the back and put sugar in your gas tank while I'm at it? I guess it depends on what day of the week it is.   
  
I don't think it's really hit me up until now that I'm really in this by myself. For myself. So far, I've had only a few people congratulate me on my win, but they don't mean it. Well, maybe Lance does, but that's just 'cause he's not mean enough to have any sort of hidden agenda. Jericho, though . . . he smiles to my face, pats my shoulder, and tells me about what a good job I did. Yeah. He's all giggles and everything while looking at me, but I can see in his eyes that in the back of his mind, he's trying to figure out a way to knock me right back down into the rut I've been in for God knows how long. I know that look. I recognize it when I see it, maybe just because it's the same one that stares back at me every morning in the mirror.   
  
So I'm the new King of the Ring. I know, deep down, that I should be jumping for joy and throwing my trophy around in everyone's faces, but there's just something about that that I can't...I can't bring myself to do. It's scary, in a way. We -- me and Edge, I mean -- we've always done everything together. Sure, we've had our problems, and I'm not saying that we're dependent on each other, 'cause we're really not. Just...we bring out the best and worst in each other. I've got a temper that only he can calm down sometimes. When we were still nobodies in the indy circuits, I was the one who kept his spirits high when he wanted to quit and go home. He's the only person who can make me laugh when I've had a tough time. He makes me angrier than any person I've ever met. I know I irritate him just as much. But we've always managed to work through our problems before. It just seems weird that we haven't spoken civilly to each other since September. Not even those hideously cutesy family gatherings at the holidays can make us act like brothers.   
  
I was there for him through the entire tournament last year. He kept pushing me, telling me there wasn't anything standing in my way. He didn't mention he was all that stood between me and the win, though. To be honest, I don't think he'd really planned on me losing and him winning, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't piss me off to carry around the trophy that should have been mine. But I cheered him on anyway. I'm his little brother. That's what good little brothers do. We swallow our pride and support the older, better looking, more popular brother.   
  
After he won, we went backstage and got swamped by people, even people who'd never said two words to us before. I guess it came down to the fact that even while we were for the most part arrogant assholes, most people knew we never said the things we did out of pure malice. Despite the fact we were supposed to hate each other, the Hardys came by and dragged Edge out to some post-event party, and like always, I tagged along. Uninvited. Unwanted.   
  
No one wanted to celebrate with *me* tonight. I can't say that I can entirely blame them, since I've insulted, abused, used, manipulated, and conned just about every single person I work with. They could at least offer. An acknowledgment would be nice. Hell, even if they walked by and told me I was a worthless, talentless hack who didn't deserve to even lick the dust off the trophy would be nice. But instead, they all just walk by like I'm not even here.   
  
Last year, I followed Edge backstage and he was greeted with hugs and cheers from a frightening amount of people. This year, I brought back my trophy and saw Jericho and Lance. That's it. No one else. No one planning a surprise party. Worst part is, Lance is the only one of the two I could even come close to calling my friend. Jericho was only there to brag about having put my brother out of commission even longer than he would have been anyway.   
  
"Managed to steal another one, huh, junior?" He asked, snapping his gum in that obnoxious way that made me almost throw the trophy at him. I walked past him and sat down on the bench, willing him to just shut up and leave me alone. Of course, this is the infamous Chris Jericho we're talking about, here. "Man, what a steal! I'd say things worked out pretty well for you, wouldn't you?"   
  
I pulled the little elastic tie from my hair and let it fall loose about my shoulders, probably more to keep from looking at Jericho than anything. A "steal"? What was arguably the biggest win of my career was, not five minutes later, already being referred to as a "steal"? Where's the justice in that? The comment turns itself around in my head, bouncing around and making me maul it over, even while I don't particularly want to. What's most ironic about this whole thing is that I can't really argue with it. Edge was hurt to begin with, then Jericho just made things worse, and he couldn't defend his throne. He probably won't even be able to come to the ceremony on Smackdown, either.   
  
When he won it last year, we took it back to our hotel room and, for the longest time, he just sat there staring at it. I asked him if he was okay, and all he did was grin and mumble something about not believing it was happening. I know how he feels, but for a different reason. I can see my reflection in the shiny metal. I look so much different than last year. No, no one else could tell it, but I can. They're not changes for the better, either.   
  
I watched the officials take the little silver plaque from the base of the trophy, the one with Edge's name and the date carved in it, and put mine in its place. It was a bittersweet moment, to say the least. I'm not as heartless as everyone seems to think I am. I mean, yes, Edge and I are still fighting like two immature brats, but it's not like I sit around plotting all the different ways to murder him when I get the chance. Right now, for example. While I *should* be out celebrating my "steal" of a win, I'm instead sitting in my locker room, staring at the trophy, and wondering if I would have changed anything if it meant I never got to where I am now. I have the win. I have the recognition. I have the respect from the office, I suppose. Vince will, I assume, take a bit more notice of me now, if for no other reason than to throw it in Flair's face that his show has the King of the Ring winner on it. But what do I have to show for it? I get to go back to an empty hotel room with my trophy, and I get to wake up the same way.   
  
I don't have my brother at my side. I don't have him hugging me and telling me he's proud of me. I don't even know if he's watching it at home or anything. Ever since we were little kids, we knew someday we were going to make it big time in this company and become huge successes. We even predicted we were going to win the tournament one after the other. We weren't serious, of course, so it's surprising it actually happened. I remember us sitting in the back of the beaten up Tempo we traveled all through Canada in, still in the indy circuit with big dreams in our heads. Edge had bought this magazine earlier that day with what little extra money he had, and we were sitting there flipping through it. All of a sudden, he points to a picture of Austin winning the King of the Ring, and he said, "someday, Chris, that's gonna be me an' you. One of us is gonna win it, and then we're gonna go out, get drunk, get laid, and party until they throw us out." Then when that dream came true, I thought he was going to start crying.   
  
I think I might start crying too, but probably not for the same reason.  
  
Fortunately for what's left of my pride, the cell phone chirping in my gym bag across the room is a welcome distraction from my thoughts. Jericho is still babbling on and on about something, but I ignore him and make my way over to the phone. "Hello?" There's no answer, but I can hear someone shuffling on the other end. "Hello?" I try again, louder.   
  
"Christian."   
  
Of all the people that I'd been expecting to call, Edge had not been one of them. I wave Jericho and Lance out the door, paying no attention to their insulted protests while I slide to the floor beside his trophy. My trophy. That's definitely going to take some getting used to.   
  
"Um...hi."   
  
"What do you want?" I wince at my tone; it was the only thing I could think to say. My estranged brother just called after I unseated him from his precious throne. I'm a little shocked.   
  
He hesitates, clears his throat, and then sighs. "Look, this is awkward enough as it is. I-I just wanted to call and...I wanted to congratulate you."   
  
That stuns me into silence, effectively ruining any remark I'd started forming in my head to get him off the phone. He takes advantage of the moment and keeps going.   
  
"I know this is weird, but you made it through the whole tournament on your own. No one cheated to help you win or anything. It was all you." He pauses again, almost like he's not sure where to go from there. "You did it, Chris. You're still an egotistical little idiot, but I'm proud of you."   
  
I feel tears slipping warm and fast down my cheeks, much to my embarrassment. I try to choke out something that might be a thank you, but all I can manage are these humiliating choking sounds that give me away clearly. Edge, ever the enigma, laughs.   
  
"Hey now, don't start crying, you wuss. We made a promise, remember?"   
  
"N-No."   
  
He sighs in that exaggerated way people use when they're getting frustrated. "Now you're supposed to go out and get drunk, get laid, and party until they throw you out."   
  
"That doesn't seem like so much fun anymore," I force out, shaking and barely able to hold the phone to my ear now. I leave out the part about it only seeming that way because he's not here to share the moment with me. I've embarrassed myself enough for one night, thanks very much.   
  
"You heard what I said, Christian. Go celebrate. Have fun for once. Look, I've gotta go. I'll talk to you later, okay?"   
  
I'm not so sure that once the emotion of tonight fades away that we won't just fade into stubborn, bitter silence again, but I nod anyway. "Yeah."   
  
"Take care, bro."   
  
Bro. I almost start sobbing twice as hard at that. He rarely called me that even in our friendliest times. It's just another reminder of what I've had and lost, what I threw away because of the same damn trophy sitting a foot away from me. "Y-you too, man. You too."   
  
We hang up without exchanging the typical "I love you's" that you'd expect from family members. We haven't done that since grade school, and now doesn't seem like the best time to pick up a forgotten tradition. I drop the phone into my bag and rise shakily to my feet, wiping at my eyes and praying to whatever deity's listening that no one walks in and sees me crying like some little girl.   
  
As I bend down to pick up my bag, I see the trophy glaring back at me in its cold, silvery smug way that makes me sound like a raving paranoid nutcase. That -- that stupid thing, that cheap Stanley Cup ripoff, was all it took to completely tear mine and Edge's relationship to shreds. A chunk of polished silver and plastic was all it took to make me forget that when it's all said and done, Edge is the only person I can rely on no matter what.   
  
Well, at least I could.  
  
Dropping my bag, I grab the trophy and hurl it across the room, enjoying the nice little cracking sound as it hits the concrete wall. It doesn't break, though. Hmm. Must not be as cheap as I thought. No problem, though. In the corner there's a cabinet being put together by the arena workers, and they left their tools there for the weekend. I dump everything out of the toolbox, searching for anything that could cause some damage. Finding none, I just toss everything out and take the toolbox back over to the trophy, smashing it again and again and not even slowing until it turns into a little flattened piece of tin on the ground. I throw the toolbox away from me with a disgusted snarl, falling back onto the floor and cursing the tears I can already feel threatening me again.   
  
I used to have tantrums like this when I was a kid. Not just normal bratty little kid tantrums, but stunts that made my parents consider more than once about medicating into obedience. Never being really exceptional parents, they threatened to give me up for adoption if I didn't stop acting that way. It wasn't anything I could control, but they didn't see it that way. So after that warning, everytime I got too upset, Edge would grab me and hold me down, or sometimes just hold me, telling me everything was okay and I had to calm down or they'd split us up. He didn't want to be apart from me. Everything he did to keep me part of our family, I still turned around and ditched him for a damn piece of metal.   
  
Maybe it serves me right that now I'm stuck in no man's land and he's not here to hold me and make everything right with the world again. 


End file.
